The Paris Diversion

by Chris Pavone

  He turns back up the hill, and keeps climbing.

  * * *

  The cabinet médical is just off the lobby, mere steps from the front door. But this door is locked. He rings the buzzer.

  Please answer.

  Please be open.

  Please let me in.

  Nothing.

  He rings again, then hears—

  Bzzzzzz…

  He pushes the buzzing door open. There’s one person sitting in the small waiting area, an old man, dozing, plus the doctor who’s standing behind a desk; there’s no receptionist. The doctor looks at Chris with obvious concern.

  He turns away from her, toward the door that he pulls closed behind him. He locks it.

  “Monsieur?” she asks.

  He turns back, and her eyes go wide.

  “On y va,” he says, walking toward her and the old man, gun in hand.

  The doctor pauses, considering her options, then nods. She takes the drowsy old man by the elbow, helps him stand, leads him to the examining room.

  “Parlez-vous anglais?”

  “Yes,” she answers. She plants the old man in an upright chair—he doesn’t seem to mind this change of routine—then turns back to the armed invader, who’s trying to take off his jacket, but failing. He can’t move his shoulder.

  “I can do it,” she says, and slides it off, very gently, but still the pain is excruciating.

  “Mon Dieu,” she says. “Gunshot?”

  “Yes.”

  He can see that she understands his predicament. He’s here to get whatever level of medical treatment he can, then get the hell out, as quickly as possible. This is not going to be a permanent solution to his serious injury, but it will buy time, and time will buy distance, and distance will buy safety.

  He notices a framed photo on the wall, the doctor is in the middle of the image, standing between a young girl who looks like her and an old woman who also looks like her, all of them wearing surgical scrubs.

  “This,” the doctor says, holding up a pair of scissors, “is going to hurt.”

  67

  PARIS. 4:56 P.M.

  Insistent banging. The Parisian cop strides to the door, unlocks it, pulls it open. He leans in to listen as the other policeman whispers, urgently. Hunter thinks one of them says, “So what the fuck do you think we should do?” and the two have what looks like a heated debate. Then they appear to come to an agreement, nodding.

  “Okay,” the talkative cop says, turning quickly back to Hunter and Colette. He yanks a knife—a big one—from his back pocket.

  “Hey, what are—”

  “Oh shut up.” The guy stands in front of Hunter, brandishes the knife. “Don’t be foolish.”

  “Never,” Hunter says.

  The cop glares at him, then drops to one knee and saws the knife quickly through the rope that binds Hunter’s ankles, then again at his thighs. He walks around to the back of the chair, and Hunter can hear the soft whoosh as the knife releases his arms too.

  Hunter shakes out his numb hands.

  “Get up.”

  Hunter suspects that he shouldn’t obey. Maybe it’s because it wasn’t that long ago when he heard the sound of gunfire nearby. He imagined it was Simpson out there, shooting someone. Perhaps shooting someone who’d come to rescue Hunter and Colette, and failed. Then Simpson hadn’t returned.

  “Come. The two of you.” This cop looks like he’s on the edge of panic. Something is wrong. Something new, beyond the plenty of things that were already very wrong.

  “Why?”

  “We’re leaving.”

  Is this good? Or is this very, very bad?

  “Why?”

  The cop returns the knife to his back pocket, and withdraws his gun again. “Why do you think?”

  Well that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it? Hunter glances at Colette, who also seems uncertain, scared. This man’s suddenness, his brusqueness, the debate between the two cops; none of it seems right.

  “Now. We don’t have time.”

  Why not? Hunter is too scared to ask any questions; he’s afraid of the answers. He knows he’ll be lied to, and he’ll recognize the lies for what they obviously are, and he’ll no longer be able to deny what’s really about to happen to him.

  He struggles up from the chair, legs trembling. He glances at the cop’s hand, at the gun resting there, almost like a cell phone, the way some people are always holding their phones, absentmindedly, permanently planted in their palms. People like Hunter.

  He glances down at the floor, sure enough, it’s his own necktie that had bound his wrists. Now it’s a piece of two-hundred-dollar silk garbage.

  The four of them walk out the door; Hunter notices that no one locks up. They hustle down the tall flights of steps, one cop in the lead, the other sweeping up the rear, both holding their weapons, neither brooking any further nonsense from their captives.

  “Get in the car. Same as before.”

  Is this the time to object? To scream? To flee? To fight?

  Hunter glances around. He doesn’t see any signs of life in this courtyard. He doesn’t see any way of getting out, other than the big door through which the car is going to drive. This is not where Hunter is going to make his escape, not where he’s going to prevail in any confrontation. This is not the time to take his stand. He can only hope that another chance will present itself.

  * * *

  The car comes to a stop, and the driver shifts into PARK. This was a quick trip. How long was the ride out this morning? Hunter can barely remember it. When was that? Six hours ago? Seven? That had been a much longer drive.

  “Get up.”

  The tarp is yanked off again, the darkness is replaced with light, with Colette’s face just inches from his. He tries to give her a small reassuring smile, which, after an uncertain pause, she returns.

  He hoists himself off the floor, looks out the window. It’s an outdoor parking lot they’re in. But no, that’s not it, there’s something wrong with all these cars, missing wheels, broken windows, flat tires.

  “Get out.”

  He doesn’t want to get out here. “Why?”

  This is a mechanic’s yard. A junkyard.

  “Out.” The talkative cop turns around, brandishing his gun. “Now.”

  This is the sort of place you bring people to kill them.

  68

  PARIS. 5:08 P.M.

  “Maintenant, c’est fini.”

  “Now? What do you mean?”

  “Now is when we end this.”

  Ibrahim has been listening to the men behind him all day, having their debates, making their arguments, covering their asses. He knows where this has been leading, it was just a matter of time, and the time appears to be now.

  “I have received the order.”

  “From?”

  “Directly from the chief. And he received his order directly from le Président de la République.”

  The last time Ibrahim looked, there were a dozen men arrayed on the roof. All of these men are, for a moment, silent.

  “It is final.”

  Ibrahim feels a presence at his back. He turns slightly, just enough to confirm who it is.

  “Officer Abid?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “There are many officials here, but only one who is your commanding officer,” the man says. “That is completely clear to you, correct?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “So if I give you an order, you are obligated to follow it. Everything else…” He indicates the other people here, taking in their uniforms, their communications, their chains of command. “Everything else is not your concern.”

  Ibrahim does not answer; it was not a question. But it is ludicrous. Not his concern?

  What will happen after
he squeezes the trigger? Yes, the préfecture will try to keep his name private, or at least they will claim to try. But will they succeed? Even if they do, will Ibrahim himself be able to keep this secret? Not a word, even to his parents?

  Perhaps he will. Then what? Will he drive himself crazy with doubt, with guilt, with self-loathing?

  Or will he admit his role to his parents, in quiet confidence? Maybe to his brother? Will these relatives of his remain completely silent? Or will one confide in a friend at the café, a colleague at the store, a schoolmate, the greengrocer, a cousin? How long will it take for this information to spread around the neighborhood? Will the community shun him? Will people hiss at him, spit on him? Will some fanatic exact misguided retribution for the wrong crime? Sneak up behind Ibrahim on a dark sidewalk?

  Not his concern?

  No, perhaps he is not the one who will face internal criticism, a disciplinary hearing, a formal reprimand on his record, maybe even be forced out of the police force, spend a few months on extended holiday in Corsica before settling into a new job, something more lucrative in private security.

  None of that is what will happen to him. Instead he will be shot in the back of the head. Payback in kind.

  * * *

  Who is this man about to be put down like a rabid dog? This hardware-store clerk whose wife was murdered by the police? This widower with the two small children and terminal cancer? What exactly is this man doing, and why?

  Perhaps he is just another man being used for someone else’s agenda. By French nationalists, manufacturing an excuse. By American spies, manipulating public opinion. A cheap life, easily expended. By Ibrahim.

  “With all respect, sir, that is simply not true.”

  “Excuse me? What is not true?”

  “That the concern is not mine.”

  The commander takes a few seconds to consider his response. All these other powerful men around, a story that will be told many times, up and down the corridors of power, in well-appointed offices and exclusive clubs, in casual cafés and formal-dress soirees, whispered among other powerful men while their elegant women stand by, It was a tense moment, they will confide, and then the lieutenant calmly said—

  “I understand that this is difficult. I do.” He places his hand on Ibrahim’s shoulder. “But it is a difficult act, not a difficult decision. You do not have a decision here.”

  This is true, Ibrahim knows it. All he could hope for is to change this man’s mind. But he has heard what he has heard, and he knows this is not possible.

  “Now is the time, Officer Abid.”

  Ibrahim’s face has been turned halfway between his captain and his target, looking at neither, but instead facing the direction of the Tuileries Gardens and Concorde and, beyond, the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower. It is a spectacular vista from up here; he should have appreciated it more. In a minute he will be escorted away to begin the debriefing. Then he will be ordered to take a few days off. Then he will be reassigned. This is Ibrahim’s last moment up on this roof.

  “Yes sir.”

  He settles over his weapon. His finger finds the trigger.

  “You are making a big mistake, Marcel. I urge you to reconsider.” This is just for the record, for the stories he will be able to tell. Everyone here knows that Marcel is not going to reconsider.

  The suicide-vested man has not moved, nor has Ibrahim’s weapon moved, so the target is still in the middle of his sight. Center of mass in the center of crosshairs.

  Then Ibrahim hears, “It is necessary, you understand, for it to be the head.”

  His breath catches.

  “You know this, yes? That vest, it is an impediment.”

  The head.

  “A single thorax shot might not be lethal. At least not immediately. There is the vest, its contents. We cannot have him writhing on the ground. Yelling, bleeding. Dying slowly.”

  Yes, Ibrahim can see this image clearly, a film playing in his imagination. It would constitute torture. Inhumane.

  “We do not want you to need to take multiple shots.”

  The head is a smaller target, a less certain shot. And a much more awful thing to do in this context. A more awful thing to be videotaped, to be broadcast around the world. It will not be a body slumping over, suddenly dead, a dark pool spreading beneath, smooth red streams in the little grout canals between the paving stones. Instead a head will explode, there will be blood and bones and brains expelled from a gory crater on the far side of the skull, pink mist sprayed into the air, gray matter everywhere.

  It will be horrific.

  People at the periphery of the courtyard will scream, the sound will bounce around the stone surfaces even as the rifle’s report is still echoing. People in their homes will gasp when they see it on their televisions, on their smartphones, they will be screaming in the streets of Paris, they will be screaming in London and Brussels, in Istanbul and Beirut, in Tehran and Baghdad and Damascus and Riyadh, in Rabat and Tripoli and Khartoum and Addis Ababa, in Kabul and Islamabad and Karachi and Jakarta. A billion and a half Muslims, a quarter of the world’s population.

  “Also, hitting the vest might risk detonation.”

  And the other three-quarters, they will see it too.

  Ibrahim does not argue. There is nothing for him to say except “Yes sir.” Then he returns his eye to the sight. Adjusts his aim. It is just the tiniest movement on his end, four hundred meters away from the target.

  The head.

  “Fire when ready.”

  When ready! How will he ever be ready?

  It is his job to always be ready, more so than it is to actually make the shot. His job is to be prepared to take a life, every time he arrives to work. But he has never before done it, not while wearing this police uniform. Not in Paris.

  Ibrahim takes a deep breath in, exhales slowly.

  Another breath, another exhale.

  Now—

  69

  PARIS. 5:38 P.M.

  As soon as she stepped out of the garage, Kate sent another text to Inez: Flight plan?

  While she waited for an answer, she searched for nearby doctors. The closest was two blocks away, but that was a pediatrician’s; not a first choice. Another quarter-mile farther afield was a general practitioner, with a name that suggested it might be a father-and-son operation. That’s where Kate would go—more than one doctor, more chance of more supplies, more expertise, pain medications, perhaps surgical experience, maybe even familiarity with gunshot wounds.

  Or maybe it was a mother and daughter. Two sisters.

  Inez replied: Still waiting.

  Kate drove away from the garage, from the surrounding commercial clutter, headed up the Montmartre hill, Sacré-Cœur looming off to the side, high up on its commanding perch, surveying the city below.

  The doctor’s office should have been right around the next corner.

  It wasn’t.

  According to her map it was right here damn it, but somehow this was not the correct spot, the real-life street did not match the virtual one on her screen, she was supposed to be on an adjoining street, one farther up the hill, separated from this one by—what? Here it was: a long staircase.

  She couldn’t drive the moped up that.

  This is the problem with GPS-powered maps: they make you believe that they’re showing everything, that they’re infallible. But their fallibility is the same one that maps have always had: limited to two dimensions.

  The street dead-ended. This was taking too long. She was running out of time, she could feel it.

  She spun the bike around, tried another route, a curving street with a switchback on the confusing mess of a hill, where adjoining streets can be inaccessible to each other, necessitating long journeys like the one she was on now, wasting precious time, zigzagging up the butte, not dissimilar to the plateau of
Luxembourg surrounded by deep gorges, another place where Kate used to chase people, and get chased.

  In fact, these very same people.

  * * *

  Kate comes to another stop, this time on a steep street next to a tall retaining wall that prevents a lush garden from spilling onto the sidewalk. The houses here look almost suburban: driveways, yards, fences with gate latches. Hard to believe this is the same city.

  She looks at her watch, that present from Dexter. Kate thought she knew what he’d been apologizing for with the exorbitant gift, but now she’s less sure.

  The gunfire was more than two hours ago, a long time with a gunshot wound. More than time enough to go into shock, to bleed out, to die. Also more than time enough to find a doctor, to treat the wound, to bandage up, to escape.

  Kate may get only one chance here. If she barges into the wrong doctor’s office, the police will be called, and a unit might be anywhere, just around the corner, one minute from responding, on-edge from the day’s events, ready to fire first and ask questions later.

  If she barges into the right office? She might get shot that way too.

  And if she does neither? Then she will have no leverage, nothing to bargain for Dexter’s freedom.

  Nothing except twenty-five million euros.

  Kate reminds herself, yet again, that it’s not her money. It’s not even her government’s money. It’s no one’s money, and it’s sitting untouched in that numbered account, accruing minuscule interest, which is exactly how it will remain for eternity, unless someone transfers it out, reintroduces it to the economy, to the pockets of chambermaids and grocers and restaurateurs and the devious woman who tricked Dexter into stealing it. Would the world be any worse off?

  The street is paved in cobblestone, bordered by an exceptionally narrow sidewalk even by Paris standards, barely wide enough for one person to walk. Kate peers down at the pavement directly in front of the building, examining every discoloration, chewing gum, dog poop—